Thoughts That Breathe, and Words That Burn
by C. A. LeSabre
Summary: Personnel are disappearing from Starbase 28.  The Enterprise crew discover a disturbing secret regarding native lifeand a certain commodity desired by Starfleet.  Mostly from Spock's POV, with appearances by many favorite characters.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, characters, or world-building of Star Trek: The Original Series that appear in this story. I take credit only for the plot and whatever else I've created here (as well as all mistakes in science, etc.). I'm not making any money from this story. My only interest is to have one more ST:TOS episode out there!

Note: The title is a quote from "The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode" (1754) by Thomas Gray (1716-1771).

**Thoughts That Breathe, and Words That Burn**

By C. A. LeSabre

**I.**

Lieutenant Larkin knew his job, and exploring the tunnels that branched out below the starbase wasn't part of it. But too many of the men assigned to survey the tunnels had never returned, and he wouldn't send any more down here until he found out what was going on. There were already wild rumors circulating among the staff. But he couldn't afford to start believing ghost stories now. There were lives at stake--and his career, if he couldn't provide the report the commander wanted.

Three men followed him, armed with phasers and a tricorder. To bring any more would have called attention to the fact that he had failed in his command thus far. But three men ought to be enough; those surveyors had gone down one at a time, unarmed save for Starfleet self-defense techniques, and unaware of any danger save what the rumors told them. Prior to the construction of Starbase 28, there had been no sentient life ever discovered on Ondiano; so what they were facing here had to be their own men, and the dark. And whatever the commander deemed important enough to send them down here to find in the first place, with orders to report to him alone.

So far, the surveyors who hadn't checked in after their shifts had been missing for less than forty-eight hours, so he'd been able to delay filing the reports. The thought of Commander Magat's face when he discovered just how Larkin had botched this sensitive commission was enough to make him embrace the dark with fervor.

Larkin was reaching out beyond the corner to do just that when his thoughts turned to fire. Every nerve, crackling with sparks; every synapse, leaping flame. Four screams rose up to twine like red-throated plumes, a conflagration that roared not in ears, but minds. Four men, fused--one white-hot inferno.

On the floor, a lone tricorder measured out the darkness. There was nothing else.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, characters, or world-building of Star Trek: The Original Series that appear in this story. I take credit only for the plot and whatever else I've created here (as well as all mistakes in science, etc.). I'm not making any money from this story. My only interest is to have one more ST:TOS episode out there!

Note: The title is a quote from "The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode" (1754) by Thomas Gray (1716-1771).

**Thoughts That Breathe, and Words That Burn**

By C. A. LeSabre

**II.**

First Officer's Log, Stardate 5937.2. The Enterprise has assumed standard orbit around Avis 9 for the dedication ceremony of Starbase 28, where Captain Kirk will preside as guest of honor. Both the captain and Doctor McCoy have made it clear that they look upon this as an occasion for the entire crew to relax and take advantage of both the training and recreation opportunities of Starfleet's newest base. But the information provided by Commander Magat has been unnecessarily vague. It would be illogical to hold back the layout of the starbase from the Enterprise's chief science officer; yet if I am to believe these records, the lower levels of the starbase have gone uncompleted. Even more mysterious is the fact that 1,514 men and women were assigned here by Starfleet Command; yet the roster of active personnel shows only 1,498. Nor is there anything in the official records to account for the loss. 

Spock joined Kirk in the center of the bridge as Commander Albi Magat's face filled the screen. Kirk strode forward, beaming. "Albi! It's been too long."

Magat's dark face broke into a tired smile. "It's good to see you, Jim. The thought of meeting you and your fine officers has been one of the bright spots in the last few hectic weeks."

Spock folded his hands behind his back, watching as the captain and commander exchanged pleasantries, planned dinner, and promised to meet for drinks when the madness of the festivities was over. Magat's eyes were shadowed; he leaned forward on his desk as though he wanted to impart a secret. His hands kept worrying with things on the desk. At last he said, "There's something else I need to talk to you about, Jim. A bit of a problem we've encountered."

As Magat spoke, a buzzing began about the edges of things. No one else on the bridge seemed to notice anything amiss with the transmission--but then, human ears were not as sensitive. It was not feedback--not exactly--more like a hum, a whisper of blended voices. Spock turned toward Uhura--and the shock jolted through him, like a spike jabbed in his spine. He caught the back of the captain's chair.

Distantly, he could still hear them: Kirk asked, "What sort of problem?" and Magat replied, "I'd rather not say on an open channel." But Spock had frozen in place, bent over, one hand to his temple, staring into a distance far below the deck. He was listening intently, as much with his eyes as with his ears: for the voice, a blending of all the females he'd ever known, sang to him in images so vivid they were far more clear than words.

Uhura noticed first; she was around the rail at his side. "Mr. Spock? Are you all right, sir?"

Someone took his arm--a strong, familiar hand. Slowly, Spock straightened, straining to see his friend through the blurred echo of a brilliance that cheapened what he saw as real. In the paler world, Kirk said gently, "Mr. Spock, is there a problem?"

Spock stood very still. "Captain," he began, but the song broke through his voice, which seemed now too rough to use--a childish approximation of meaning. He stopped.

"What is it, Spock?"

"I just received--a distress call. From the original inhabitants of this planet. It was more of a presence than a message--a series of images laced with emotion and connotations. And yet the impression was quite distinct. They said, as precisely as I can render it, 'Help us, or the ancestors will be destroyed.'"

Kirk mused, "There's no record of intelligent life. No one on this planet but Federation employees."

"Nevertheless, these beings do exist. This was a mind unlike any I've ever touched before."

A long look passed between the two men standing in the middle of the bridge. That look spoke a question as clearly as words.

Spock answered, with quiet precision, "Whether it was a threat or a cry for help, the danger to the base is very real. I think that you will find that whatever Commander Magat has to say, there is a situation on the planet below that is insupportable."

"I've known Albi Magat for years. He's devoted his life to Starfleet. He comes from a long line of admirable spacefarers. His loyalty to the Federation is beyond question."

"It would appear that someone on Ondiano does not agree."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, characters, or world-building of Star Trek: The Original Series that appear in this story. I take credit only for the plot and whatever else I've created here (as well as all mistakes in science, etc.). I'm not making any money from this story. My only interest is to have one more ST:TOS episode out there!

Note: The title is a quote from "The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode" (1754) by Thomas Gray (1716-1771).

**Thoughts That Breathe, and Words That Burn**

By C. A. LeSabre

**III.**

They beamed in to a transporter pad just above the base. The sun set above the rim of mountains, a heavy red-gold ball that warmed titanium towers to molten copper. The rugged crags, red cliffs, and shadowy brown caves expanded in all directions, diminishing the smooth, shining surfaces of the starbase, whose towers, domes, and arched walkways looked tiny in comparison.

Commander Magat stood waiting for them with a tight smile in a craggy brown face that seemed entirely in keeping with the landscape. Magat was flanked by five armed guards. After the initial pleasantries, Spock raised an eyebrow and observed, "You were expecting trouble, Commander Magat."

Magat chuckled, the sound soon lost in the rushing wind. "It always pays to be prepared out here in the wilderness, Commander Spock."

The bridge sparkled, a gossamer thing that arched over the purple shadows of the valley. The hush of the walkway added distance to the spectacle of the tiny people walking below, their faces lifted in silent conversation, their hair and uniforms ruffled by the unheard mountain wind as they hurried about their work, braid and buttons glinting in the setting sun.

Kirk straightened his gold dress tunic. "You said we need to talk, Albi. I believe there's time before the ceremony."

Magat said, "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jim. But since your senior officers are present, I'd hoped to take this opportunity to give you a tour of the new facilities." There was a world of worry in Magat's liquid black eyes--a language entirely different from the words he spoke.

Through turbolifts and gleaming halls, over carpets patterned in blues and purples to match the art, Magat showed them conference rooms, recreation areas, dining halls--all the features that would make this place a luxury to starship crews coming in from long patrols. Here were the offices of those who ran the place; here were the quarters of those who repaired the starships. Even the tiny bunk areas, with their sun-walls and potted plants, were as neat and pristine as the pictures in a starliner's brochure. The observatory absorbed Spock's interest as twilight dimmed to purple night. Then they stood in the control dome. The moment he crossed the threshold, Magat was assailed with questions. Sulu, Uhura, and Scott found their closest counterparts and began talking shop.

In a low voice, Spock observed, "He kept us as far as possible from the lower levels, Captain."

"You think that's where the trouble lies?" Kirk murmured.

"There are some areas that are unaccountably absent from the schematics."

McCoy approached. "It's almost time for the ceremony. Shall we proceed?"

But Magat was occupied with a harried-looking officer. He waved them toward the door with a distracted frown. "Ensign Toms will take you to the staging area. I'll join you in a moment."

As they left the room, Spock caught a glimpse of the small viewscreen beneath the triangle of the officer's gesticulating arms.

They followed the ensign down the lift to the grand hall, where they stood backstage, waiting for their entrance. Kirk smiled, watching the assembled guests in familiar Starfleet uniforms, bright primary colors decked with the honors of a dozen worlds. As Magat took the podium, Spock stepped close and murmured, "Before we left the command deck, I saw part of the report that ensign carried in. Men were exploring a tunnel. They died, Jim--in what looked like excruciating pain."

Kirk gave him a long, troubled glance--all he had time for before Magat called Kirk's name, to resounding applause. As Kirk strode onto the stage, Spock took his place in the wings. The officers and staff were nodding and laughing at Kirk's remarks. But there were some--security detail, by their uniforms--who were not smiling. They hunched forward, leaning on their knees; their eyes sought out the corners of the room, their faces grim. Spock tensed, scanning the hall for the trouble they so clearly anticipated.

Kirk called for his officers, introducing them one by one as they spread out across the stage. As the first to cross, Spock watched as the audience reacted to the officers of the famous starship. As Sulu took his place, Spock caught a flurry of movement--out of place--too fast to see--a fluttering at the corners and ceiling of the room, like a rippling through stone. "Get down!" Spock shouted, but it was already too late: the shockwave coursed through the room, knocking everyone to the floor. Through the shouts came the rumbling of stress, the groan of metal; then everything was still.

Kirk and Spock struggled to their feet. McCoy ran hasty checks on the Enterprise crew, then hurried to the audience. Magat stood to the side, his dark brown cheeks touched with ashen pallor as the reports came over the screen beside him.

Magat turned to them as they approached. "Anyone who was carrying a weapon--is dead."

Spock said, "This is not the first mysterious death that has occurred on the starbase, is it, Commander?"

Magat looked at him with a mixture of fright and anger in his black eyes; the anger won. "I'll have you know I've been doing everything in my power to investigate those--disappearances!"

"Everything," Spock said, "but include any mention of them in an official report."

"I tell you, I don't know what's killing them!"

"We're going to find out." Kirk gathered his officers. Over Magat's protests, Kirk insisted, "We're already here, Commander. Like it or not, we're involved. Whatever just happened directly threatened the officers of the Enterprise, and we're going to investigate."

McCoy joined them. "There's nothing I can do here, Jim. The ones who were affected are all dead. Everyone else appears to be fine."

"Security officers?" Spock inquired.

"Why, yes, Spock, but what does that--"

"Then it would appear that Commander Magat's initial analysis was correct. Whatever the cause, it would appear to be a clean attack."

"You call that clean? My God, Spock, I thought you had a little more humanity than that!"

They hurried down red-and-orange-checked carpets, past service grills in the walls, and into a lift. Spock said, "The obvious civilians remained unharmed. What's more, from the anxiety of the security personnel in the audience, I would venture that they had reason to anticipate some sort of violence."

All eyes turned toward Magat as their stomachs dropped with swift descent. His jaw hardened, but he said nothing.

The lift stopped at subbasement five. Magat entered a command code. The room beyond was laid out as a laboratory, with one oddity: in the far wall, an arch framed a hole wide enough for several to walk abreast. Rock samples on the tables matched the rusty color that shone in the tunnel's entrance.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "This doesn't appear in any of the plans."

Magat ushered them to the portal. "There are natural tunnels all through this area. For some reason, they didn't appear on the initial surveys. We only discovered them once we'd dug down this far. By then, we were behind schedule with construction, so once we determined they were stable, we bracketed them for future exploration. Since then, no party that's gone more than a few meters down these tunnels has come back alive."

"Have they all been armed, sir?" Spock asked.

"Not the initial surveyors. The first few got through. The next group-- We found their bodies close to the entrance, with their samples spread out about them like a diagram."

"Or a message," said Spock. He ran his hand along the smooth tunnel walls. "Remarkably regular for a natural phenomenon," he observed. "In fact, I would venture to guess that they are not natural at all. Your geologists must know that. By leaving these tunnels open, you've provided their constructors with direct access to a Federation starbase--a fact of which you are most certainly aware, or you would not have led us here. Whatever these tunnels contain, it must be valuable indeed for you to risk so much."

Magat looked sick. Kirk said, "Whatever it is, we've got to stop it. I want Scotty, Sulu, and Uhura back aboard the Enterprise. Uhura, send a priority message to Starfleet, with regular updates on whatever we find down here. Scotty, you take command. If there's an emergency, I want you and Sulu at the helm."

Scott said, "What about you, sir? The science officer I can understand--and if there's an alien life form, the good doctor will surely want to study it. But begging your pardon, sir, there's no need for you to risk your own life."

"If there is sentient life here, Scotty--and they object to the starbase--we're going to need someone who isn't directly involved to negotiate peace."

Spock located a tricorder among the shelves. "This should suffice. Given the situation, I suggest we keep equipment to a minimum."

As the golden glow of the transporter reduced their number, Kirk said, "Care to accompany us, Albi?"

The base commander, gray and sweating, agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, characters, or world-building of Star Trek: The Original Series that appear in this story. I take credit only for the plot and whatever else I've created here (as well as all mistakes in science, etc.). I'm not making any money from this story. My only interest is to have one more ST:TOS episode out there!

Note: The title is a quote from "The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode" (1754) by Thomas Gray (1716-1771).

**Thoughts That Breathe, and Words That Burn**

By C. A. LeSabre

**IV.**

McCoy carried a portable lantern so as not to wear down the charge on the tricorder. Spock walked at his side, recording and analyzing, his attention divided between the tricorder and the tunnel itself. As the tunnel branched and swerved, he recorded the coordinates of each diversion.

The farther they went, the more the walls glistened--not as if they were wet, but as if some mica, with a sheen like diamonds, were embedded in the stone. Spock would occasionally pause to touch the wall, his fingers positioned as if he could feel his way deep into the rock. Somewhere near were the people who had called him. Could they, who had reached him out in space, hear him now?

The tunnels opened occasionally into small chambers vaulted high with crystal, their ceilings taking the light of the single lamp and spreading it, glowing like the moon within a pool. The shapes of the caves were matched by the shapes of the arched entranceways, their octagons and pentacles fringed with crystal seeming too delicately formed to have been born of stone.

"These tunnels are absolutely beautiful," McCoy said in reverent tones.

Spock said, "I agree, Doctor. They have an elegant simplicity that would commend them to architects on Vulcan. And yet, there is something wild and unfettered even in their mathematical precision. I wonder what the beings who created them might be like."

Behind them, Magat protested, "Beings? These tunnels are natural formations. They belong to no one!"

Kirk said caustically, "Don't play the innocent act too far, Commander. Just who did you think was responsible for your troubles--your own men? Now's the time to have that talk you promised me--the truth, if you ever intended to provide it!"

"You wrong me, Jim."

Spock looked up sharply. He'd felt the lightest, feathery touch across his mind--and then, somewhere off at the edges, a darker music that jarred him. He put his hand to the wall, and the music swelled, unsettling, disorienting, funneled through layers of crystal and stone. "They are aware of us, Captain."

Kirk hurried to his side. Spock pressed his shoulder to the wall as he reached above his head for a second grip. The call came through again, frightened, stronger--a separate thread of melody within the rest. He gasped as the power of it momentarily dimmed his vision. He had no body; he was floating, free, buoyed by the mass of song across the generations. He was--

McCoy had grasped his shoulder where he slumped against the wall. He stared straight up into her eyes--a shock, as if a mirror had looked back. But he knew her. She was the one who had called him. She was--himself.

The other voices dimmed. Her cry of sorrow in his head drove him to his knees.

Somewhere, he was aware of Kirk bending over him, calling his name. But he was not the one who needed help. He tried to wave Jim away. "Help her," he said gruffly.

But Kirk helped him to his feet. He was aware of two dark eyes staring at him from around the corner like a frightened gazelle.

"Come out," Spock said gently. "We're not going to hurt you." He drew a breath. "You know me. You've seen the truth of who I am."

She stepped into the corridor then--shimmering, shifting, a sliding of shape too fast for the eye to follow. Her breath echoed in the chamber as her form slowed down, as if by an act of will. There was the impression of brown fur soft as down, of great hornlike feathers drifting above dark eyes. Powerful legs crouched, bunched like a grasshopper's; even with careful mincing steps, those legs made up more than half the height. As she raised a hand toward him, he could see a web of flesh under her arms.

She put her furry hand in his. He could feel the dusty sheen of her down like powder on his palm.

She spoke to Spock's mind. Her voice drifted from their lips, high notes on joined breath--an ethereal, keening melody that echoed in the chamber like whale-speech, and the lyrics that embodied the song. "Hurry. Others are coming. I will guide."

McCoy said, "How do we know it's not a trap?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. With the proper concentration, his voice was still his own. "If we seek the answers, gentlemen, that's a risk we'll have to take."

She led them forward so quickly that McCoy had to jog at times to keep up with the light; yet by the precision of her steps, and the bunched legs that never unfolded very far, it seemed that this wasn't fast at all. As they walked, the silence grew--a waiting silence--and Spock felt himself drifting deeper. Her life unfolded without the need for speech: the Ondiano gliding above the surface of hidden valleys; evolution beyond the need for clothes or written language; memory shared among all her people, with a mental power greater than any computer ever known; their ability to haze the memories of both humans and machines to keep their own existence private. The soul of art resided in memory, philosophy, cloud paintings, the ephemeral beauty of poetry spoken the moment nature's beauty caught the soul, never to be repeated again. Contemplation of the long song was the greatest good. But the starbase would kill them, if given half a chance: not so much their planet, as their spirit. Already the humans had pried three of the ancestor crystals from the temples, silencing them without remorse. The humans' minds were so dead they could not even hear the cries. Not as Spock had heard them, the mournful echoes, scraps of song that haunted the edges of things, now that three of their number were gone.

"Some of my people," she told Spock through the effort of his own voice, "have chosen to disregard our heritage--to put aside the knowledge that has never left us, the memory of common ground. We were once like you; and yet they consider humans to be inferior, children who cling to material possessions that are meaningless in the end. They scrabble for gain in terror of death--the one thing that no one can escape. But you are like us. You, too, have devoted your mind to higher things--the poetry of logic, the art of reason."

Kirk said, "But where are your novels? Your paintings? You appreciate art, but what do you create?"

She raised her arm to indicate the tunnels. "Life is the soul of art. We exchange the most complicated dreams. We impose our thoughts on the world around us. And music, Captain--music that modulates the moods of the soul--whose transience is itself a comment on its beauty--what higher art is there?"

The strain of her speaking through his voice left Spock coughing. He tried to exert some control--to impose his understanding over the shape of language, so the translation from sound and images to speech should be more nearly true. Yet it was not. There were pieces missing. As they walked, he tried to tell the captain, in halting breaths. He was aware of McCoy holding his elbow while Syrii held his hand.

Kirk said to her, "You speak as though you don't agree with your people."

"They have become so absorbed in looking at themselves they have forgotten how to see you," she began; but Spock's coughing cut off her words into a fluting, unintelligible song. They walked in silence then, with the song of their steps echoing around them.

They stood at last in the center of a wide chamber filled with light--pinpoints so bright at first it looked as though stars shone from the comparative darkness of the walls. Crystal formations glowed from within, etching out geometric patterns and shapes so complex that even Spock's eye could not take them all in. And up near the top, sketching a small circle--

"Dilithium crystals," Spock said. "Half a dozen of them."

Magat's face lit up, the color blocks from glowing pinks and blues and greens shifting across him as he stepped forward. "I knew there had to be more! Think of it, Jim--we'll go down in the history books. If they're using them as art, there must be hundreds, even thousands more down here!"

Kirk's face was expressionless. "So you knew about this all along?"

"Why do you think I asked for the Enterprise? Once word gets out, there'll be ships from a dozen worlds trying to stake a claim."

"Is this what you wanted to tell me?"

"I was also planning to ask your advice--as an old friend, someone who lives out on the frontier. You know what it's like, Kirk. You could help me approach the Federation. Even if this doesn't make my career, the finder's fee has got to be enormous. But if it's handled wrong, I could lose everything. Just think about what would happen if even half the men and women on this base decided to go prospecting."

McCoy said with disgust, "They'd die, most likely. Just like the other people you sent down here."

"That was never part of the plan. But don't tell me your starship hasn't sacrificed more lives in the name of science. What I've done, I've done for the sake of Starfleet."

"And your career!" McCoy spat.

Kirk held up a hand. "Enough." He turned to Spock and Syrii. "What is this place? A temple?"

"These are our sacred places. Our secret lives."

Kirk said, "I appreciate your trust. But somehow I get the feeling this is the last thing your people wanted us to see. Why are you showing us?"

Even in the lumpy contours of her face, there was no mistaking that look of fear. "I need your help--to stop them."

"The Federation? Believe me, once they learn about your people, these caves will be off limits."

"No," she said.

But neither she nor Spock had the chance to explain any more.

Magat leapt up onto the counter, a low sill built into the wall. He grabbed crystals as handholds, ignoring the ones that broke off and scrambling higher.

Kirk leapt after him, grabbing for his shirt, his boots; but the man was too fast, already reaching for the circle of dilithium crystals high above.

Throughout the room, the crystals began to sing--a chaotic medley of voices, low and high, in rhythms more fluid than speech.

Still clutching Syrii's hand, Spock became conscious of the meaning of the silence that had dogged them all the way here.

"They're all around us--watching--" he gasped out.

But it was more than that. Syrii cried out, a high fluting of distress and sorrow that needed no translation. She leaped with one incredible spring like flight and plucked Magat from the wall, twisting in the air to shield him as crystals of every color splintered and rained down like fire.

Spock hurled himself to catch them as they tumbled to the floor. She brushed his mind--panic, fear, and love; the knowledge she had gained from Spock; one long stream of understanding that she poured out to her people, who stood all around. She was shielding them, shielding them all, with the same power that the others had used to destroy humans from the inside out. Spock could feel the others in the shadows, drawing near, frowning at she who had betrayed them. He could feel her bleeding, her pain--and their cold rage. A rage that would destroy the crystals and the ancestors all at once, the humans and the symbols of their evolution--despite their love of life, their love for both--if it would end the desecration of the temples of their innermost being.

"No," he groaned. Spock struggled up from beneath them, leaving a wide-eyed Magat in the arms of the bleeding Syrii. He could still feel her in his mind, small and weak, and growing weaker. Swaying, he stood between her and the wrath of her elders. "You must not harm her."

The others had not known what was happening; in their shock, it took them moments longer to react. Now McCoy was hovering over Syrii, struggling to save her, while Kirk advanced, shouting, "You murdered her! One of your own kind!"

Spock held him back. "Jim, no. The last thing she would have wanted is more violence." He faced the elders. "You have the power to save her."

They bowed their heads. Their music filled the room, resounding painfully, their images pounding into every mind. "We have no power over life or death."

Spock said, "Yet she told me that you hold all life sacred. She feared that by your own actions, you were destroying yourselves, and with you, all who came before."

They were silent. He could not read them: they had closed themselves to him. And so, he felt, had she, with the soft but final closing of a door. Into the quiet, McCoy whispered, "Too late."

The faces of the Ondiano glittered like the crystal shards that lay scattered to the corners of the room, lit now only by McCoy's lantern on the floor, and a sextet of dilithium crystals humming calm above the fray.

One by one, they stepped forward and bowed to Spock. With each of them, a shard of her returned. She had shown them what some in their outrage had wanted to forget: the brotherhood of living beings; the ways in which they were all the same.

With no tongue and every tongue, the dirge lay thick as memory within the room: "Her sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Spock gathered all he knew before he spoke. "The question is, how will you honor her?"

They bowed again. In the gentle humming of the room, there came no answer.

Kirk took his place beside Spock. "Do not judge us by the intentions of one man. The Federation will not allow your shrines to be violated."

"Our world."

But Magat said shakily, "Starfleet won't abandon the base. They've invested too much already. We would never have come here if we knew there was intelligent life. We made every effort to find out. But we're not like you; we can't just pull knowledge from the air!"

"You have the stars."

Kirk leaned closer to Spock. He murmured, "Is that just a polite way of saying, 'Go home'?"

"I do not think so, Captain."

"Ah." Kirk nodded. He said aloud, "We--have the stars. And you can share them--if you let us remain."

Spock said, "The beauties of a hundred worlds. So many different forms of life. The art of the universe would be spread before you."

Kirk said, "But if you want to keep your homeworld, you can't stay isolated any longer."

"That which has been taken."

"Will be returned," Kirk said. "And I swear to you, by my honor as a Starfleet officer, that your sacred relics will not be stolen again--so long as you promise to harm no more of our people."

In the tense silence that filled the room, taut as the pause before the resounding crash of a great symphony, Spock thought about many things: the surprising beauty to be found in all the shifting, complicated patterns of life; the ultimate simplicity at the heart of all things, despite life's infinite variations; and of all this, the meaning created when one unique being was willing to sacrifice itself for another.

At last the silence sang.

"Those which have been taken sing no more. You must carry those three crystals to your ship, Captain Kirk, where they will serve with honor. They will be the first among us to see the stars."

--END--


End file.
